Heaven's So Far Away
by nolyte
Summary: Rated for brief language and general angst: When the most important person in your life is lost, don't you want someone to lean on? Imagine if you didn't have that person. Rico-centric.


**Third story here. Another Rico-centric fiction. Please guys, if you manage to catch this before it slips back to page 2 or 3, read it, review it, share it. It's hard to write oneshots on _Hannah Montana_'s page because it gets lost so quickly that reviews are rare. Please encourage others to read this story as well as my others. Thank you. **

**Also, once again, I am a 13-year-old guy, and yes, I enjoy/write for _Hannah Montana_. You may be wondering why I continue to remind you of this, and here is my answer:**

**It is for the lulz. **

**And I still don't own it.**

_---_

"And it feels like _heaven's__ so far away… and it feels like the world has grown cold, now that you've gone away." – The Offspring_

---

"That's unfair!"

_You're right,_ Jackson seethed.

"Completely unfair!"

_It's true._

"Such a rip-off!"

"I know, alright?" Jackson suddenly burst out. "It's not me; it's my little troll of a boss! You know what? Here!" He grabbed two hot dogs from the carousel and shoved them at the teenagers before him. "On the house! I'm just as sick of that monster scamming people as you are."

Speechless but nonetheless satisfied, the two girls stood up and walked away with their food. Jackson exhaled and rested his head sideways on his left hand, glaring at the marble countertop. He looked up when Oliver stalked over.

"What was that about?" the long-haired freshman asked, wide-eyed.

"Gave 'em free hot dogs," Jackson said, pride evident beneath his gradually dissolving surface of anger.

Oliver looked shocked. "Why?"

"Because I'm done," Jackson spat. "I'm tired of sitting here and helping Rico rip these people off. I mean, eight bucks for a hot dog? _One hot dog?_ It's ridiculous and I won't be an accomplice to it anymore.

"I'm sick of that kid. He wants to insult these people he can do it without my help because I'm not a monster like he is."

Around the corner of the shack, Rico turned around and sighed. He had just overheard Jackson telling Oliver about his charity work and was about to chew him out when his employee started ranting about him. It didn't seem worth it to get mad now. It would just prove Jackson's point.

He shrugged. _Whatever._ He'd been dealing with this his whole life. Turning the corner, he didn't exactly have a hop in his step, but he wasn't melancholy either.

All that criticism? It was just part of his life.

---

Later that day, Rico slowly climbed the set of eight steps to his front door. He stared at his family's mansion. How could a house so big and bright seem so…

_So cold?_ he thought to himself as he sighed and turned the doorknob.

He stepped inside and let the door slam shut. Before anything else he heard his mother's screeching voice come from the kitchen: "You had better take you shoes off, Ricardo! You've been on that beach all day and I won't have sand in the carpets!"

_Good to be home, __Mami_ Rico thought solemnly as he followed his mother's orders and began his trek upstairs.

Walking the length of the hallway to his bedroom, he passed the open door of his father's study. Stopping momentarily to observe what he was doing, Rico saw his father on the phone, mid-Spanish rant. Sighing again—and realizing he'd been doing a lot of that lately—Rico continued toward his sanctuary.

Once inside he pushed the door shut and threw himself on his bed. He clicked a remote control to turn on some music, at once loving this technology for its convenience and hating it for its fanciness. He was too rich.

Tossing the remote aside, he stared at the ceiling for a few seconds before turning to his right. His favorite picture hung on the wall. It was from two summers ago, his eleventh birthday. In the image he sat on his grandfather's shoulders, and the two of them were laughing with each other. It made Rico smile. "I love you _abuelito_"

He looked at this picture every day. Grandpa Manuel truly was his best friend. Any time they could spend together was good time. Manuel seemed to be the only person who loved Rico for who he was, the only person who knew that Rico wasn't just this angry little abomination—that he was a good kid who just wasn't the best with words, with people.

Besides, as that implies, Rico's social life wasn't that great.

His home life wasn't much better.

"Ricardo!" his mother shrieked from downstairs. It made Rico wince. He hated that name. His parents were the only ones who called him that. Asking them to call him "Rico" never worked, though; they never listened to him. "Get down here for dinner!"

"Coming," Rico said half-heartedly, as if it could be heard all the way in the dining room. After he shuffled his way down to the dinner table and sat down, he was only scolded not to begin eating until his father arrived. But his mother didn't yell at _him_ to get downstairs.

Finally, the intimidating man stomped his way down the stairway and into the dining room, forcefully ripping at the knot in his tie to remove it.

Sitting down, he said, "Miguel's gonna be putting up one hell of a fight for this inheritance."

Rico almost smiled to himself. It had to be his Uncle Miguel. A nice enough man, he figured, but he had to be the greediest man on the face of the earth.

_Well, maybe the second greediest,_Rico corrected himself, glancing at his father.

_Wait._ Something occurred to him. "What inheritance?"

His father huffed and continued his conversation with his wife. "I told him we need to get our hands on a will before we can decide anything, but I tell you, he'll battle for every dime he gets."

"What inheritance, _Papi_"

"But if it's in a will, he can't find a way to get money he isn't owed, can he?" Rico's mother responded to her husband.

"_Papi_ _What inheritance?_"

With harsh, demeaning bluntness, Rico's father turned to him and said, "Grandpa Manuel died."

Stunned, Rico felt a wave of dizziness overtake him and a dull ringing began to pulse in his ears. _"What?_"

"I said, Grandpa Manuel died. Now be quiet and let your mother and me talk!"

The small boy sat there, motionless, shocked, frozen for almost a minute before standing up and bolting for the staircase. His parents didn't bat an eyelash between them.

When he reached his bedroom again, Rico glanced at the photograph again before looking away, unable to fix his gaze upon his grandfather's face. He sat down on the edge of his bed and stared at the floor, still in shock. A lump formed in his throat.

He could not believe it. This was his grandfather, his best friend, his only friend. The most important person in the world to him. And the way his father told him—annoyed to be interrupted as he argued about _inheritance_. The only person who had ever loved Rico passed away and all his father could worry about was inheritance.

Quietly, Rico whispered, "_Abuelito__…_"

The strain of vocalizing forced the lump to give way, and the first tears slid down his cheeks. He closed his eyes and succumbed to the quiet sobs that would rule him for the night.

---

The next day Rico woke up early. Earlier than he could ever remember waking up—well, not exactly. The only times he had ever woken up this early he had been visiting Grandpa Manuel. Those days he had been eager to get up because his grandfather would always have a homemade omelet ready and the two would always sit together to watch cartoons. A childish tradition that never seemed childish to Rico; it was a cherished part of any visit to _abuelito's_.

But today there was no omelet waiting downstairs. Rico's eyes were dry; he was too exhausted to cry anymore. All he needed was time to think.

So he walked out to the beach, sat down on one of the barstools by his shack, and thought.

He thought of all the memories he had created with his grandfather. Most of these made him smile, but it was a hollow smile. It would be a while before these memories were anything but cruel reminders of what would never return.

He thought of how harsh his parents had been—how harsh they had always been. Rico knew he had never been anything but a disappointment to them.

His father wanted an athlete from his son, a real jock, a real man. But sports weren't Rico. He never enjoyed them and he was always too small to be any good at them.

Meanwhile, his mother expected him to be the most artistic, creative, fine individual this side of Da Vinci.

The first time Rico picked up a paintbrush, the head fell off. He broke two guitar strings the first time he ever held the instrument, he offended neighbors when he attempted to play saxophone and he couldn't even reach the pedals on a piano.

No. To his parents, he was just a burden. A distraction.

He was just _Ricardo_.

He had always been more than _Ricardo_ to Grandpa Manuel. To Manuel, this boy had been _Rico_, the brightest, kindest, most extraordinary human being on the planet. And he understood that Rico just had trouble expressing this sometimes—and who could blame him? He had been raised to believe he was no good.

Yes, to Grandpa Manuel, Rico was special. And now Rico realized with a sting that Manuel was probably the only person he would ever be special to. For now, he had pushed everyone he could have been close to far away, and he didn't know how to undo that.

Head held up by a propped elbow, the tears returned to cloud Rico's vision. He sniffed, blinked, and allowed them to slip down his face, which felt raw.

Enter Jackson, tired and disheveled but somewhat proud to be the first one to the beach. He liked the feeling of power that he got from opening up the shack, getting it ready for the masses. It felt good.

About to do his trademark jump-and-slide over the counter, Jackson noticed that he wasn't the first to the beach today. Rico was sitting on one of the stools.

"Hey Midget," Jackson taunted, his hot, fleeting anger from yesterday gone but his common condescension remaining, "didja climb outta your crib a little early today?" He chuckled and completed his move to behind the counter. But Rico didn't respond—he didn't even look up. He just seemed to sigh quietly.

Jackson looked closer and saw that Rico was—was Rico crying? Suddenly Jackson almost felt uncomfortable. It wasn't that he was embarrassed or anything, but this was just so unlike the Rico he knew that he was shocked to be witnessing such a spectacle.

"Hey Rico," he asked with a slightly hesitant sympathy, "What's wrong?"

Rico sniffed again and tried to wipe his eyes dry. "Grandpa died," he responded quietly, embarrassed at the saddened cracks in his voice. But he just couldn't make the effort to hide his grief.

Taken aback, Jackson replied, "Oh, man… I'm really sorry, Rico."

The boy scoffed. "No you're not," he said, and before Jackson could respond he stood up and walked away, hoping to find some part of the beach where he could be alone.

Jackson watched him walk away, hands in pockets and eyes to the ground. He sighed, suddenly less willing to tackle the day's objectives.

---

Though he would often look up from his work in search, Jackson didn't see Rico for the rest of the day. He assumed that the smallish boy had wandered to some secluded edge of the pier, and he didn't attempt to follow him. Jackson could understand when someone needed to be alone.

It was around noon when Miley and her friends arrived at the beach. It being their favorite and most frequently visited hangout spot, Jackson wasn't at all surprised when he looked up and saw his sister trot through the entrance with Oliver and Lilly. They were laughing and at one point Miley even playfully shoved Oliver, who lost his balance and knocked over somebody's umbrella—thankfully, whoever it belonged to was either in the water or strolling along the shore, and he merely stood it back upright and continued, comfortable in his lack of grace.

The group of three approached the shack's counter, where Jackson was solemnly drying the inside of a glass. Now sitting on one of the barstools, Miley asked, "Jackson, what's up?"

Her brother placed the glass down and as he spoke he looked off in the distance, attempting to follow the path that Rico had trekked earlier that morning. "I saw Rico here this morning. It was kind of weird—he was crying. Said his grandpa died."

"Oh, that's awful!" Lilly said. The three younger teenagers looked sympathetically troubled as Jackson continued.

"I guess he wants to be alone—he went off toward the pier when I showed up. I feel really bad though, because I started bagging on him as soon as I saw him. Didn't mean anything by it, it's just what I always do."

"It's not your fault, Jackson," Miley said. "You didn't know anything was wrong. Still, maybe that bagging that we've always done… maybe Rico doesn't know it's all supposed to be in good fun."

"Maybe he took it harder than we ever meant him to," Oliver interjected.

"I figured," Jackson responded. "I told him I was sorry about his grandpa, and he didn't believe me."

The foursome sat quietly, deep in thought, for the better part of two minutes before an elderly woman approached, requesting bottled water. As Jackson sighed and retrieved the lady's beverage, Miley stood up.

"Where are you going, Miley?" Lilly asked.

Miley turned. "I'm going to try and find Rico."

"But you heard what Jackson said," Oliver argued. "He wants to be alone."

The girl turned back and looked toward the pier. "I think it's just the opposite," she stated.

"I think he's sick of being alone."

---

It didn't take long. Miley reached the pier and sure enough, Rico sat, isolated, looking off into the ocean.

Miley quietly approached. Before Rico noticed anything, she had reached his position and sat down next to him. He looked up in surprise and quickly tried to wipe his eyes. Through sniffs he questioned, "What do you want?"

"Jackson told me what happened," Miley said carefully. "I just wanted to; I don't know… talk to you. I thought you might need it."

Rico turned back to the sea. "Well, I don't."

Without moving, Miley just stared softly at the boy next to her. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm—" But when he turned and saw the gentle compassion in this older girl's eyes, he couldn't continue his sentence. He drew his knees to his chest and buried his face in his arms.

"You have no idea," he said quietly, barely audible as the statement was muffled by tears and the sleeves of his shirt. "You… you just have no idea."

It pained Miley to see him like this. At times it had been hard to admit, but Miley had always liked something about Rico, as had Jackson, Oliver, and Lilly. They had seen something that told them this boy wasn't really what he appeared to be. And Miley had always at least seen Rico as a friend—but now she realized that maybe that feeling hadn't been reciprocated. Maybe Rico had only _wished_ that Miley was a friend, not knowing that she could have been all along. _That's my fault,_ Miley thought to herself.

After a short time, during which Miley's eyes brimmed with moisture, she reached out and simply placed her hand on Rico's shoulder. "Tell me," she whispered.

Rico took a deep breath and finally lifted his head. Tears shone on his cheeks and he avoided eye contact, choosing instead to stare out at the water once again.

"Nobody likes me," he said. _What an embarrassing cliché to have to use_, he thought to himself bitterly. But he continued. "Nobody has ever liked me… except my grandfather."

Miley could only look on in stunned, forlorn silence.

The boy continued. "My parents don't even care about me. Just because I could never do the things they wanted me to do. So I barely even matter to them." He paused to sniff before persisting with, "And they didn't even care that he died. All they cared about was the stupid inheritance.

"I've taken nothing but shit my whole life because of my size, or because of my heritage, or because of some awful reason. I've never fit in at all. Yesterday I even heard Jackson yelling about how sick he was of me because I 'rip people off.' I don't even set the prices at the shack! My dad makes me charge that much because he's that much of a greedy bastard.

"Grandpa Manuel was the only one who loved me. He really loved me… nobody else has even come close." At this, Rico broke down again, unable to deal with his own reality.

Miley was heartbroken. Moved to tears herself, she wrapped her arm around Rico's shoulders and sniffed.

"Rico, I know we've made a lot of mistakes," she said quietly. "Jackson, Lilly, Oliver and me have never really done anything but tease you. And I can sit here and swear to God that none of it was meant to hurt you, but it wouldn't do anything because it already has.

"But I do swear to you, Rico, that you have more friends than you think. I'm here for you and I know they are too. I promise you that." She reached around and pulled him into a hug. He didn't react physically and Miley's embrace went unreturned, but when she pulled back he looked at her.

"How can I trust you?"

She put her hand on his shoulder again. "Things will be different. We had no idea about all these things—but I promise things will be different." She leaned forward and gently kissed his forehead.

Finally Rico was able to smile. "I believe you," he said, and Miley smiled back.

About thirty yards away, Oliver, Lilly, and Jackson looked on. When they saw the results of her work, they smiled warmly. "Miley always was the one with words," Jackson said.

The three of them stood with their hands in their pockets as Rico and Miley approached. "Hey Rico," they said quietly.

Rico, for once, looked comfortable, as he was walking with Miley's arm around his shoulders. "Hey guys," he said, and he smiled.

Everyone smiled back.

---

"Eight bucks for a hot dog? That's ridiculous!"

"It's unfair!"

"It's just crazy!"

Jackson looked at peace with his work as he replied, "Look girls, I don't really like the prices either, but I can't control them, alright?"

"Well," one of the girls replied, "Rico obviously can! Where's Rico? This is his shack!"

Again, Jackson replied calmly, "It's actually Rico's dad's shack. Rico runs it, I guess, but the prices ain't his problem. Sorry girls—the prices are what they are, so either buy a hot dog or don't."

Obviously unsatisfied, each of the two girls slapped down a ten dollar bill and stalked off in a huff, carrying their lunches and their change. Jackson chuckled quietly and opened a comic book; business was slow that day.

Rico grinned as he turned the shack's corner and approached his employee. "Thanks, Jackson," he said.

"Don't mention it, little buddy," was the response.

Unexpectedly, Rico reached onto the counter and grabbed the tens the teenagers had left. He offered one to Jackson. "Want it?"

Jackson was surprised. "Do I want it? Well, I mean, sure, but why?"

Handing over the money, Rico beamed as he pocketed the other. "Eh, no reason."

The two smiled at each other. Continuing, Rico said, "My dad just doesn't need any more money."

He walked off, feeling oddly content.

Contentment. It was a new sensation for him.

---

**Thanks for reading. Please review and I repeat, I urge you to spread the word about my stories. Once again, thanks a lot.**


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